Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Arlene Corwin Jul 2016
I Would Never Be Impolite On The Internet

I would never be impolite
On the Internet.
(Is that big or little i?)
If one’s the chance to get
In touch with planet earth
And everyone upon it
One should view it as an honor,
Rare, beyond compare.

I would never let myself be rude
(Or ****)
To people I have never met –
The Internet or not.

At times I have opinions, views
About the news, news
Being what it is – not positive.
Yet I’m constructive and well-mannered,
Having no desire to hammer
Anyone or anything to powder.
I have no desire for power.
I can say,
Convey
My thoughts and notions
Without oceans of sarcasm.
There are chasms, schisms
Separating –isms,
But I don’t take part,
My heart not filled with hate.

On that account
I never would be impolite
To anyone on Internet –
Big or little I).

I Would Never Be Impolite On The Internet 7.25.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Essa Freedom Nov 2014
To be a princess you must:
never be impolite
never slouch
never turn your back
never show who you are
always do whats right
always follow a scheduled
always wake up early
always always always
Well i'm glad i'm not a princess
rhiannon Mar 2019
Once upon a time there was a brave girl called Alison Parker. She was on the way to see her mum Michelle Ramsbottom, when she decided to take a short cut through Wyre Forest.

It wasn’t long before Alison got lost. She looked around, but all she could see were trees. Nervously, she felt into her bag for her favourite toy, Bunny, but Bunny was nowhere to be found! Alison began to panic. She felt sure she had packed Bunny. To make matters worse, she was starting to feel hungry.

Unexpectedly, she saw a kind werewolf dressed in a black skirt disappearing into the trees.

“How odd!” thought Alison.

For the want of anything better to do, she decided to follow the peculiarly dressed werewolf. Perhaps it could tell him the way out of the forest.

Eventually, Alison reached a clearing. She found herself surrounded by houses made from different sorts of food. There was a house made from carrots, a house made from biscuits, a house made from cakes and a house made from pancakes.

Alison could feel her tummy rumbling. Looking at the houses did nothing to ease her hunger.

“Hello!” she called. “Is anybody there?”

Nobody replied.

Alison looked at the roof on the closest house and wondered if it would be rude to eat somebody else’s chimney. Obviously it would be impolite to eat a whole house, but perhaps it would be considered acceptable to nibble the odd fixture or lick the odd fitting, in a time of need.

A cackle broke through the air, giving Alison a fright. A witch jumped into the space in front of the houses. She was carrying a cage. In that cage was Bunny!

“Bunny!” shouted Alison. She turned to the witch. “That’s my toy!”

The witch just shrugged.

“Give Bunny back!” cried Alison.

“Not on your nelly!” said the witch.

“At least let Bunny out of that cage!”

Before she could reply, three kind werewolves rushed in from a footpath on the other side of the clearing. Alison recognised the one in the black skirt that she’d seen earlier. The witch seemed to recognise him too.

“Hello Big Werewolf,” said the witch.

“Good morning.” The werewolf noticed Bunny. “Who is this?”

“That’s Bunny,” explained the witch.

“Ooh! Bunny would look lovely in my house. Give it to me!” demanded the werewolf.

The witch shook her head. “Bunny is staying with me.”

“Um… Excuse me…” Alison interrupted. “Bunny lives with me! And not in a cage!”

Big Werewolf ignored her. “Is there nothing you’ll trade?” he asked the witch.

The witch thought for a moment, then said, “I do like to be entertained. I’ll release him to anybody who can eat a whole front door.”

Big Werewolf looked at the house made from pancakes and said, “No problem, I could eat an entire house made from pancakes if I wanted to.”

“That’s nothing,” said the next werewolf. “I could eat twohouses.”

“There’s no need to show off,” said the witch. Just eat one front door and I’ll let you have Bunny.”

Alison watched, feeling very worried. She didn’t want the witch to give Bunny to Big Werewolf. She didn’t think Bunny would like living with a kind werewolf, away from her house and all her other toys.

The other two werewolves watched while Big Werewolf put on his bib and withdrew a knife and fork from his pocket.

“I’ll eat this whole house,” said Big Werewolf. “Just you watch!”

Big Werewolf pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from biscuits. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

Eventually, Big Werewolf started to get bigger – just a little bit bigger at first. But after a few more fork-fulls of biscuits, he grew to the size of a large snowball – and he was every bit as round.

“Erm… I don’t feel too good,” said Big Werewolf.

Suddenly, he started to roll. He’d grown so round that he could no longer balance!

“Help!” he cried, as he rolled off down a ***** into the forest.

Big Werewolf never finished eating the front door made from biscuits and Bunny remained trapped in the witch’s cage.Average Werewolf stepped up, and approached the house made from cakes.

“I’ll eat this whole house,” said Average Werewolf. “Just you watch!”

Average Werewolf pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from cakes. She gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

After a while, Average Werewolf started to look a little queasy. She grew greener…

   …and greener.

A woodcutter walked into the clearing. “What’s this bush doing here?” he asked.

“I’m not a bush, I’m a werewolf!” said Average Werewolf.

“It talks!” exclaimed the woodcutter. “Those talking bushes are the worst kind. I’d better take it away before somebody gets hurt.”

“No! Wait!” cried Average Werewolf, as the woodcutter picked her up. But the woodcutter ignored her cries and carried the werewolf away under his arm.

Average Werewolf never finished eating the front door made from cakes and Bunny remained trapped in the witch’s cage.Little Werewolf stepped up, and approached the house made from pancakes.

“I’ll eat this whole house,” said Little Werewolf. “Just you watch!”

Little Werewolf pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from pancakes. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

After five or six platefuls, Little Werewolf started to fidget uncomfortably on the spot.

He stopped eating pancakes for a moment, then grabbed another forkful.

But before he could eat it, there came an almighty roar. A bottom burp louder than a rocket taking off, propelled Little Werewolf into the sky.

“Aggghhhhhh!” cried Little Werewolf. “I’m scared of heigh…”

Little Werewolf was never seen again.

Little Werewolf never finished eating the front door made from pancakes and Bunny remained trapped in the witch’s cage.

“That’s it,” said the witch. “I win. I get to keep Bunny.”

“Not so fast,” said Alison. “There is still one front door to go. The front door of the house made from carrots. And I haven’t had a turn yet.

“I don’t have to give you a turn!” laughed the witch. “My game. My rules.”

The woodcutter’s voice carried through the forest. “I think you should give her a chance. It’s only fair.”

“Fine,” said the witch. “But you saw what happened to the werewolves. She won’t last long.”

“I’ll be right back,” said Alison.

“What?” said the witch. “Where’s your sense of impatience? I thought you wanted Bunny back.”

Alison ignored the witch and gathered a hefty pile of sticks. She came back to the clearing and started a small camp fire. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the door of the house made from carrots and toasted it over the fire. Once it had cooked and cooled just a little, she took a bite. She quickly devoured the whole piece.

Alison sat down on a nearby log.

“You fail!” cackled the witch. “You were supposed to eat the whole door.”

“I haven’t finished,” explained Alison. “I am just waiting for my food to go down.”

When Alison’s food had digested, she broke off another piece of the door made from carrots. Once more, she toasted her food over the fire and waited for it to cool just a little. She ate it at a leisurely pace then waited for it to digest.

Eventually, after several sittings, Alison was down to the final piece of the door made from carrots. Carefully, she toasted it and allowed it to cool just a little. She finished her final course. Alison had eaten the entire front door of the house made from carrots.

The witch stamped her foot angrily. “You must have tricked me!” she said. “I don’t reward cheating!”

“I don’t think so!” said a voice. It was the woodcutter. He walked back into the clearing, carrying his axe. “This little girl won fair and square. Now hand over Bunny or I will chop your broomstick in half.”

The witch looked horrified. She grabbed her broomstick and placed it behind her. Then, huffing, she opened the door of the cage.

Alison hurried over and grabbed Bunny, checking that her favourite toy was all right. Fortunately, Bunny was unharmed.

Alison thanked the woodcutter, grabbed a quick souvenir, and hurried on to meet Michelle. It was starting to get dark.

When Alison got to Michelle’s house, her mum threw her arms around her.

“I was so worried!” cried Michelle. “You are very late.”

As Alison described her day, she could tell that Michelle didn’t believe her. So she grabbed a napkin from her pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Michelle.

Alison unwrapped a doorknob made from biscuits. “Pudding!” she said.

Michelle almost fell off her chair.

The End
Mary Rose Nov 2012
ill-mannered impolite uneducated
how many words would describe rude
cheeky uncultured inconsiderate crude
how many words would say rude
they say money can't buy you class
then how much did you buy for your crass
Please next time people, give constructive criticisms. And don't be rude. There is no need for childish behavior in this place
rhiannon Mar 2019
Once upon a time there was a special girl called Sonya Randall. She was on the way to see her Dad Tristan Godfrey, when she decided to take a short cut through Hyde Park.

It wasn't long before Sonya got lost. She looked around, but all she could see were trees. Nervously, she felt into her bag for her favourite toy, Laura, but Laura was nowhere to be found! Sonya began to panic. She felt sure she had packed Laura. To make matters worse, she was starting to feel hungry.

Unexpectedly, she saw a naughty Uni-pug dressed in a blue dungarees disappearing into the trees.

"How odd!" thought Sonya.

For the want of anything better to do, she decided to follow the peculiarly dressed Uni-pug. Perhaps it could tell him the way out of the forest.

Eventually, Sonya reached a clearing. In the clearing were two houses, one made from peas and one made from cakes.

Sonya could feel her tummy rumbling. Looking at the houses did nothing to ease her hunger.

"Hello!" she called. "Is anybody there?"

Nobody replied.

Sonya looked at the roof on the closest house and wondered if it would be rude to eat somebody else's chimney. Obviously it would be impolite to eat a whole house, but perhaps it would be considered acceptable to nibble the odd fixture or lick the odd fitting, in a time of need.

A cackle broke through the air, giving Sonya a fright. A witch jumped into the space in front of the houses. She was carrying a cage. In that cage was Laura!

"Laura!" shouted Sonya. She turned to the witch. "That's my toy!"

The witch just shrugged.

"Give Laura back!" cried Sonya.

"Not on your nelly!" said the witch.

"At least let Laura out of that cage!"

Before she could reply, the naughty Uni-pug in the blue dungarees rushed in from a footpath on the other side of the cleaning.

"Hello Big Uni-pug," said the witch.

"Good morning." The Uni-pug noticed Laura. "Who is this?"

"That's Laura," explained the witch.

"Ooh! Laura would look lovely in my house. Give it to me!" demanded the Uni-pug.

The witch shook her head. "Laura is staying with me."

"Um... Excuse me..." Sonya interrupted. "Laura lives with me! And not in a cage!"

Big Uni-pug ignored her. "Is there nothing you'll trade?" he asked the witch.

The witch thought for a moment, then said, "I do like to be entertained. I'll release him to anybody who can eat a whole front door."

Big Uni-pug looked at the house made from cakes and said, "No problem, I could eat an entire house made from cakes if I wanted to."

"There's no need to show off," said the witch. Just eat one front door and I'll let you have Laura."

Sonya watched, feeling very worried. She didn't want the witch to give Laura to Big Uni-pug. She didn't think Laura would like living with a naughty Uni-pug, away from her house and all her other toys.

Big Uni-pug put on his bib and withdraw a knife and fork from his pocket.

"I'll eat this whole house," said Big Uni-pug. "Just you watch!"

Big Uni-pug pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from cakes. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

Eventually, Big Uni-pug started to get bigger - just a little bit bigger at first. But after a few more fork-fulls of cakes, he grew to the size of a large snowball - and he was every bit as round.

"Erm... I don't feel too good," said Big Uni-pug.

Suddenly, he started to roll. He'd grown so round that he could no longer balance!

"Help!" he cried, as he rolled off down a ***** into the forest.

Big Uni-pug never finished eating the front door made from cakes and Laura remained trapped in the witch's cage.

"That's it," said the witch. "I win. I get to keep Laura."

"Not so fast," said Sonya. "There is still one front door to go. The front door of the house made from peas. And I haven't had a turn yet.

"I don't have to give you a turn!" laughed the witch. "My game. My rules."

The woodcutter's voice carried through the forest. "I think you should give her a chance. It's only fair."

"Fine," said the witch. "But you saw what happened to the Uni-pug. She won't last long."

"I'll be right back," said Sonya.

"What?" said the witch. "Where's your sense of impatience? I thought you wanted Laura back."

Sonya ignored the witch and gathered a hefty pile of sticks. She came back to the clearing and started a small camp fire. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the door of the house made from peas and toasted it over the fire. Once it had cooked and cooled just a little, she took a bite. She quickly devoured the whole piece.

Sonya sat down on a nearby log.

"You fail!" cackled the witch. "You were supposed to eat the whole door."

"I haven't finished," explained Sonya. "I am just waiting for my food to go down."

When Sonya's food had digested, she broke off another piece of the door made from peas. Once more, she toasted her food over the fire and waited for it to cool just a little. She ate it at a leisurely pace then waited for it to digest.

Eventually, after several sittings, Sonya was down to the final piece of the door made from peas. Carefully, she toasted it and allowed it to cool just a little. She finished her final course. Sonya had eaten the entire front door of the house made from peas.

The witch stamped her foot angrily. "You must have tricked me!" she said. "I don't reward cheating!"

"I don't think so!" said a voice. It was the woodcutter. He walked back into the clearing, carrying his axe. "This little girl won fair and square. Now hand over Laura or I will chop your broomstick in half."

The witch looked horrified. She grabbed her broomstick and placed it behind her. Then, huffing, she opened the door of the cage.

Sonya hurried over and grabbed Laura, checking that her favourite toy was all right. Fortunately, Laura was unharmed.

Sonya thanked the woodcutter, grabbed a quick souvenir, and hurried on to meet Tristan. It was starting to get dark.

When Sonya got to Tristan's house, her Dad threw his arms around her.

"I was so worried!" cried Tristan. "You are very late."

As Sonya described her day, she could tell that Tristan didn't believe her. So she grabbed a napkin from her pocket.

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

Sonya unwrapped a doorknob made from cakes. "Pudding!" she said.

Tristan almost fell off his chair.

The End
Sam Conrad Nov 2013
I bet you never got to know
That I wasn't always depressed
I was always narcoleptic

Every time I told you I didn't feel good and couldn't see you
I wasn't depressed
I was narcoleptic

That message in March
Where you said you even loved when I was so depressed I couldn't get out of bed
I was narcoleptic

I couldn't help it
People never understand, it's like how you feel when you've been up for days
I was narcoleptic

I could sleep 12 hours
And not feel refreshed, because my sleep doesn't heal me, like it heals you and others
I was narcoleptic

I know I took those stimulants
But they made me edgy and nervous, and I turned into a ****, so I didn't take them but
I was narcoleptic

You see, those stimulants, Vyvanse
Made me feel like I'd been up for days but running on 2 pots of coffee because
I was narcoleptic

A man who has been up for days
Is not often the most polite and I hated being impolite so I stopped taking them but
I was narcoleptic

So I spent my days sleeping
Sleeping till noon, then needing to sleep at 3 PM, until 10 at night and then until noon because
I was narcoleptic

Your stepdad said he wouldn't stand for that "crap"
But I couldn't help it, I wanted to see you more than anything and I knew it hurt you but
I was narcoleptic

Not only am I narcoleptic
I think I have fibromyalgia just like my grandmother, who loves you too, I think,
I have fibromyalgia.

Today I'm still narcoleptic with fibromyalgia
But I've found a cure, a mix of two pills, one for the narcolepsy and one for the pain
One pill is designed for nothing but narcolepsy (not ADHD) and the other a narcotic for the pain
You'd have no idea how much better I feel than I did before
You'd have no idea because you don't care to learn who I am
Because I'm not who I was, I'm refreshed, something new, I'm normal for once
Not just feeling bad, not just tired and sore and fatigued, not so depressed I can't get out of bed

Just narcolepsy and fibromyalgia.
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.

I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.

My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!

I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.

So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!

So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater.  Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
kiryuen Jun 2015
sometimes hearsay isn't enough
I'm digging, digging,
oh, just raking up the flower bed

you have a sweet face
open yet so guarded
what secrets do you hide behind cherry lips?
you will share them with me over cake and cold tea
you will not take them to your grave, it's impolite

pray tell, what brings you here
and who gave you secrets
speak, those lips aren't just for the painting
why so silent, lady? silence is impolite
I said, you will share your secrets with me
I've already prepared cake and tea and a soft bed for you
(is it normal to be so angry)

the tea is cold, I apologize
you see, we have no warmth in these parts
you're new here, so you have to learn quickly
secrets are our currency

you have lips like a flower, quite dainty
(flowers also die easily)
don't make me pluck the petals, one by one
woman, deflowered
you will share your secrets, one by one

yes of course, I will send the painting to your husband back home

I walk out onto the veranda
in the living room, the butler picks up cherry-red petals and stores them in a jar
I see the flower bed in the distance (at least what's left of it)
I did my best digging it up, I believe it makes a soft bed
I told you, she will not take her secrets to her grave

fret not, woman, oblivion is not an issue
I will see you in flower beds, and in portraits of guarded smiles
your family will remember you in the painting I sold to a museum instead

woman, portrait
you're no longer a mystery
thanks for sharing your secrets over cake and cold tea
David Ehrgott May 2016
Can a blind man
Become a poet
How can one write
about the things
they have never seen

Could a deaf man
Write poetry
How could he express
the sounds of things
He has never heard

Would a dolt even think
About writing poetry
and if he COULD put down
on paper what he feels
Who on Earth would ever listen

There's a professor at Harvard
Who teaches poetry
left, write, upside down, and sideways
but, she was never
Write for me
Tristan Taylor Oct 2017
You changed me
You changed how I look at things
In this generation
Of this posterior celebration
Which I am, no doubt
Aware that you’re a straight up knockout
From your lips that pout
To your delicious Double D's
Made me just say from the rooftops

Save the *******
Is that chauvinistic of me?
Is that impolite of me?
Save The *******
I finally saw the light
I love the *******
They are love
They are life
Save the *******
They are the sustenance of our being
Now, I’m not that perverted
I’m just practicing what I’m preaching

This is to the girls that I accidentally touched
Their community chest
Their blessed *******
I sincerely apologize
It wasn’t on purpose
Please excuse my hands
They just got careless

To the girl who asked me
“Do you want to see my *****?"
Well, what do you think?
I said yes within two blinks
I expected a glimpse
Of those small beautiful *******
But she said it was just a test
My bad
I guess I just confessed to

Save the *******
Is that chauvinistic of me?
Is that impolite of me?
Save the *******
I finally saw the light
I love the *******
They are love
They are life
Save the *******
They are the sustenance of our being
Now, I’m not that perverted
I’m just practicing what I’m preaching
A poem about my love for *******, and my viewpoint on them.
ogdiddynash Apr 2018
so many people on
the city streets
on a fine spring Saturday

how can I,
her *** grab,
in a gesture of
genuine admiration,
for its balletic pas de deux
a perfect gyration elation
within a tight jeans artistic
framing

with all these impolite people occupying our space
in the Q train subway station


on the isle of Manhattan
Damaré M Oct 2013
If Tuesdays are bad news days 
Fridays are always sideways 
Struggling 
Hustling 
Fumbling 
Tumbling 
Trembling stuttering 
Impolite utterances 
Brotherless 
Misguided mothering 
Distant cousins 
Conditioned lovers 
Struck by thunder 
No structure to govern...

Monday is gonna come...

No matter what goes on in your life Monday is going to come 
Give me one time that Monday have not approached? 
Hold your head 
You'll be alright 
If not 
Monday is still on it's way 
If you stay stuck in muck 
The world isn't 
It will move onto a new week
Connor Aug 2015
Islands formed thru
Sea-
Children run to
Parliament laughing/
Cheerful for their own
Crucifixion.
Airplane tendril exhaust chokeholds my
Bluesky-
IT'S GETTING HOT, HUH?
Pollution pill form
Pharmacy extract deathglue
Coats up our public parks.
Concave eyes are sputtering visions
Of smog clocks-a-tickin tomorrows.
Nobody ventures to the river anymore.
The TV antannae blasphemy signal prayer to
White House Christs
and "reality" transmitted poison
is too DISTRACTING!
Cacophony vibrating in the trees
Where somebody spray paints
"**** THIS ONE TOO"
Drunk on the Marina by midday
Oh, that one was funny.
Police cars butterfly the nest with siren wings..
THE COLORS OF AMERICA MIND YOU.
Arresting the Accordion player by Robinson's outdoor shop?
NOWwhowouldwannadothat!
They're just swaying the jagged noise imitations of Sinatra!
Decadence infected that instrument and its vessel a long time ago now.
Keep on playing there Francis its okay nobody is listening.
Budded beam of light serenades
Chinatown Upper Floor Apartment
Delirium/three women shouting from their balcony high off ***** from next door neighbor.
questions
For the next time
"Why do I feel so unhappy now?" addiction therapeutic
Temporarily, easing headache and that depression, lady is screaming now in her sleep.
Gargoyle security cameras haunt the street corners.
Electric generators perfume the musical thinman who plays saxophone on lower Pandora,
Two in the morning imagination
Boundless between industry and
Needle prodded Lepers wailing on the adjacent sidewalk, muttering to past childhood friends who took form of rapid voices
Praying for suicide in that HEAD OF THEIRS/I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU ASK!
Men searing their skin with
Carnival narcotics
Tableau upon the bleeding
Walls of modern Hades.
Hopeless romantics
Tread benches facing the
Amber sheathed City blocks
contemplating their emotional vacancies
& labyrinthine desires
(How to achieve the unconquerables of love??)
Can hardly walk in that there
Brilliant light of Luna
Candle for the lonely planetarium
(Childlike galaxy!)
Undeniably complex/
Mademoiselle waving her soft hand alltheway out to
Intercosmic space!
Lipstick stainless
Alpha Centauri
Don't know what DAZZLE romances are,
man o man o woman o mano e mano
Voltage surge thru veins and brain-
Institutionalize me!
I'm in love!
Power of Napoleon in here!
(Tap to my ribs implying the heart is beating poems again)
ecstasy isn't no sanity at all,
Happiness in times like ours is
Delusional half-consious *******
Fed by the state.
Listened in on a podcast once
At work, theys men prophesied
Discombobulation of our economy!
Nostradamus-Moderne waving his phallus of necropolis political
Myth finishing on everyone
From Taiwan to Manhattan
(Tho the myth may be truth yet)
Sunshine bedroom
The Shadows of knight play Darkside recording
(1968)
New American and Canadian Poetry
Rests under faraway currencies
That once rested in my pocket during
Late walk out of Furama,
Mosquitoes illuminated from
Restaurant lanterns and enormous Asiatic hotels.
Tropical sweat beaded from my head,
Hair was shorter back then..
Bike & Blue Cabcar race past,
Tide of the Indian ocean feline
Elegance as Southern Hemisphere
Heats up my ankles,
Balinese acoustic band covering Crosby Stills & Nash (Suite Ruby Blue Eyes) distantly midst oriental carpets and beaded umbrellas where Australians smoke the cigarettes which smell of cigars.
Guitar string clatter,
Fireflies  (flying lightbulbs)
Catching words from accent
Frenzy wordscramble.
This place calls itself Oasis,
Yet here they are the Kuta Bums!
Palm pattern shirts unbuttoned halfway revealing russet hairy chests/ sunbunrt necks/ tanned cheeks/
Pimply backs.
One keeps returning to my table,
The answers always the same
"No thank you" till I feels like being
Impolite.
Oh! The bothering efforts these Bums put in.
It's against the law to pay them jack-
but their brains have turnt to wack-
From hallucinatory perils-
Making muck of their thoughts and dreams reality a-tattered skin
Simply easing by they don't know one February vs the next
Or the laws
Or this that and the other!
Belt buckles light&wind; up toys
Glowsticks hat tricks body ticks
Lighter flicks nausea aura
Body odor
Depression
Anxiety
Illness variety
Candy capped with dots
an' golden cyanide
Bruised nails, infected eyes glazed,
Minds dazed, gods prayed to, Buddhas praised.
Sutras practiced on the southern axis
"GOOD PRICE, JUST FOR YOU MY WHITE FRIEND"
Preach their evening discount discourse holding riven boxes
Tainted with wax chalk.
Who worries of them now?
I'm across the Pacific sea!
Thousands a Miles away
From memory.

My love is hungry
My bank means nothing
The moon shines
Impressions of Autumn
Upon the consciousness of
A spark surviving a typhoon.
Where was I?
The thought has ended.
Brandon Sep 2012
We rise and stand to the praises of hypocrisy

We sit and listen to the opening speeches

The narrow minded preaches 

We rise and stand again fumbling for the right dog eared page of the bible 
Looking for the hymns we hum in disjointed rhythms

Feel the spirit 

Feel the passion

Fill the collection plate

We have to build a church for all the Buddhist heathens that haven't heard the Gospel

We sit and listen again
Hanging our heads and closing our eyes in prayer

I only pray I don't fall asleep this time

The preacher

The reverend

The pastor

The pope

The Speaker of God's Word

The man annointed to deliver the path to God and Jesus but only if you seek salvation thru his sermons

The only thing I can do is watch the seconds ticking away on the wall clock
We've been here for twenty minutes and I wonder if it's impolite to stand up and walk out

But I'm kept in my seat as a sign of loyal friendship to friends that dig this kind of entertainment 

Conversion is on the mind
Saved is a word repeated and replicated until all meaning is ****** from it
Feeding grounds for the imaginary hole that only Christ can fill

Another glance at the clock reveals that God is real and he has chosen to slow the seconds down to a slow trickle

Acrimoniously I keep my mouth shut tightly 
Resisting the urge to laugh at a photoshopped picture of a prim and proper white woman teaching a school of Africans about God and how he provides for all

I imagine the children praying
For food to feed them and all they know
For the wars that have torn apart their families to end
For the death of diseases we found the cures for long ago

But they don't have the money for such nonsense like that 

so please fill the collection plate
We need to build a church in Fiji

I hear its a real nice place for a vacation

(The purpose of this parsimonious pursuit of perplexed passion and phony persecutions progressed prophetically by pontificated prayer and perseverance promises pompous pension plans for prolific preachers and prostitutes preparing for purgatory.)

This church is built for social and business networking
High class socialites and low end born withouts trying to buy their way into heaven thru redemption and baptism

The doors open finally and the choir of angels sing their praises as if God has tired of this gathering just as quickly as myself

Shaking sweaty hands and spreading our words of false sincerities 
We walk out feeling more like heathens and atheists than we did when we entered

Next Sunday I think I'll just stay home like usual.
The title of Protestant Poppycock was also suggested...
Qweyku May 2014
Noon had barely finished his circuit
when I engaged the Sun in conversation,
wondering if her healing rays were a golden ode to pain?

Abruptly interrupted;
shirts' silk thread dripping displeasure,
at the sudden moistness of its condition.

In return and in much the same verbal position,
I chided this thread,
intoxicated with sticky saline libation,
much less for the distraction
as opposed to the - parley intrusion,

citing;

“My dear shirt it’s impolite to gravitate beyond one's social inclusion”

Instinctively,
back and fingers joined this spoken foray
distancing themselves in unison
from the sozzled garments' argument.

Arching and pulling away,
his company no longer entreated,
whatever beauty he had,
now lost,
in his present
dis - position.

In agreement and sunshine unabating,
I attempted to continue our once lovely conversation.
But she;
her glow unwaning,
had moved on,
no longer finding such small talk entertaining.



**© Qwey.ku
Have you ever seen a the pages of a story unfold in a single movement of a moment; these are stolen.
Zachary Nov 2012
It shapes the way I wanna follow,
it's the only curve that promises no sorrow.
The white trembling trance,
the key to most people's romance.  
The flash of an angel,
but shame of the devil,
if you were to open your mind it'd be level,
if you looked my way
I'd show several.
It's always there when I'm not,
but when I think of you I can't stop.
That probably sounded bad
but I don't care,
mainly because it'd be so impolite
not to copy that and
stare.
Kate Dempsey Jun 2011
I kneeled on the polished wood floor, panting and sweating. My body was writhing in pain, having been mercilessly beaten two masked men; I knew not who they were or why they had come for me. Nor did I know where I was now. I didn’t know anything anymore; everything was drowned in a rising sea of confusion. There was nothing but my battered body, slowly letting forth blood and the wooden floor, gluttonously sapping the heat from my hands and legs and hoarding it within its cold, polished surface.
My ears perked as I heard a noise outside of my elegant prison. As I strained my ears to their fullest extent, I almost grasped what the sound was. Soon, there were several noises and they were louder than the original one. After an unknown period of time, I recognized the sounds as speech even though I could not understand it. Fear swelled within my heart. I feared that the goons who had battered me and sealed me in this room were among those who conversed in the hallway and what horrific things they would do to me if they returned. I prayed for the voices to stop, for them to leave. I waited for the worst, but prayed for the best. I silently and fervently prayed to a God that I only halfway believed in.
Silence. My prayers had been answered. I let out a sigh of relief. It was the first unrestricted breath I had taken since my troubles began. I savored this breath; I inhaled solace and exhaled fear. I rose to my knees and straightened my weary back, feeling the bones crack several times. How wonderful it felt to be upright again!
The doorknob clicked. My eyes darted toward the door. Almost immediately, five men entered, all of them splendidly dressed. They walked with elegance, like kings. Two of them stood at the back of the small room, their eyes watching me like those of a bird of prey pondering ******* a rat. A large man approached me, slowly but menacingly with his great girth shifting with every step. I felt my body tense as I waited for him to strike me. Even with this, I noticed the other two men standing in the corner, continuing their conversation. I tried desperately to listen in. Perhaps they would mention why I was here? But no understanding was to be gained as I could not understand a single word. I recognized the language, however, was Mandarin. Without a moment’s notice, I felt a shove and my chest and face came into an abrupt and painful contact with the floor. It took me a moment to realize that the fat man had kicked me. He shouted at me, in an unintelligible anger. I rose back to my knees and hands and looked into the face of my assaulter.
He was massive. His body was that of a great pig in an elegant, well-tailored suit. His skin was a very tanned yellow and his hair was combed back. He had an upturned nose and small, accusatory eyes glistening with ire as he looked down upon me. He stood before me with a sinister smile as my eyes wandered to his hands. I watched as he ran a fat, jeweled hand over a gorgeous cane. As he continued to stroke the cane, I wondered how he would abuse me next. He circled me once and stopped at my side, his patent leather shoes shining brightly. I could see nothing else of him but his shoes. At that moment, he shouted something at me, and beat me with the cane.
I could not understand his question. Had he asked me about drugs, embezzling, money? I knew nothing of such matters, for I was a simple person. The second I replied “I don’t know”, he struck me again and again, over and over. He soon began to kick me simultaneously, until I collapsed back onto the floor. My stomach and legs had had about all they could take. I was already bruised and I could feel my bones aching. I began to cry. I thought of my husband and my daughter and wondered if I would ever be able to return home. Surely they would wonder why I had not returned home by now and would worry. I somehow believed that I would not ever see them again. It was a terrifying thought.
The pig man began to giggle hideously, his voice gurgling and unpleasant, sounding simple-minded and unrefined. He then began to **** my shoulder with his magnificent cane as he began to tease me, like a demented child. I thought him to be a savage, uncivilized and impolite. For some reason though, I could not completely fear him; I could only hate him. One of the two men in the corner addressed me, and scuffled to my front. His plain face addressed me with a cool and aloof manner, showing neither disgust nor compassion. His spoke to me with a tone that was calculating and observatory and it made me long to know what he was saying even more. But somehow, I welcomed his presence. He was so much less offensive, not striking me or adding to my confusion. He turned away and addressed his companion, who was now seated at the beautiful mahogany desk at the front of the room. His gestured to me rigidly and spoke smoothly to the man.
I could not see the other man particularly well, as the room was dim and most of his form was hidden from me by shadows. How I wished they could have hidden the pig man as effectively. The cold man then knelt to my level and my eyes rose to meet his. I was afraid of what someone so stoic would do to me. I knew not what he was thinking. His slender lips parted.
“Do not fake ignorance. We know it was you.” he said slowly, the words slipping from his lips like water. I was relieved to discover that one of them spoke English. Perhaps he could help me understand why I was brought here.
“What was me? I have not done anything! I promise you!” I had no earthly idea what he believed I had done. I was completely ignorant. I wracked my mind, hoping to think of any obscure reason as to why they had apprehended me and what I might have done to anger them so. His eyes never left mine. He slowly blinked and reopened his eyes. They were cold and unforgiving, shining brightly like black, polished beads. I felt shivers travel down my spine and into my legs. His blank stare somehow felt like a death sentence. He rose and continued to speak to the man at the desk, who was shuffling through papers, and rummaging through what I believed to be a cash box.
With a quiet emission of speech from the man behind the desk, the room grew silent. He rose from the desk and floated over to my limp body. His feet glided gracefully, always stepping perfectly. With only a short phrase, the cold-eyed man walked away. I panicked. He was the only one who could understand what I was saying. I scrambled after him, grabbing onto his leg, begging him to allow me to accompany him to anywhere but this frightening room. Without so much as a glance at me, he shook his ankle free and departed. I felt my only chance at freedom leave with him. A chill passed through my body as I submitted to silent desperation. I lowered my head and cried.
The man gestured me back to him, calling to me in his exotic language as he switched on the desk lamp, allowing me to see him. I was nervous from having seen the two goons at the back of the room. His appearance alone was a relief. As I crawled toward him, I felt that I was meeting a god.
He wore a red silk jacket, embroidered intricately and elegantly with gold flowers and calligraphy that I wished I could read. His hand bore a simple ring, silver with a round stone in the middle, obviously jade. His face was no less impressive. He had smooth pale yellow skin and pleasing brown eyes, large and misty. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His smooth lips were wrapped around a long and slender pipe. I watched him inhale and exhale a dancing little cloud of smoke, admiring how gorgeously his chest rose and fell. He looked somehow lukewarm, neither kind nor cruel, not gracious or threatening. He spoke briefly to the two men standing steadfastly at the back. I immediately knew that the graceful one was the leader of this group.
One of the two men grabbed me by my arms, shocking me while the other proceeded to unbutton my ripped and sullied shirt. Why were they removing my clothing? Were they planning to **** me and dispose of me afterward? I feared the worst as they removed my shirt and bra, revealing my upper torso and proceeded to roughly remove my pants as I struggled to free myself. Once I was completely naked, they released me and I crouched upon the ground and cried. Soon, they would have their way with me. One of the lesser men picked up my clothing and inspected the pockets as if he was searching for something. Whatever he was expecting to find was beyond me. I looked back up at the beautiful man, wondering what horrors he had in store for me. His eyes met mine and we both stared for a long time; our gazes were only interrupted once we heard the crumpling of paper.
The both lesser men were inspecting a sheet of paper that they had found in my pocket. One of them waved it about triumphantly and handed it over to the boss. He too examined the paper as an expression of mild confusion overcame his round face, like a moon as it waxes and wanes. Once he grew frustrated with the paper, he handed it to me speaking in his foreign tongue. I did not need a translation, he wished for me to decipher the paper somehow. I inspected the paper with weary eyes and gasped. It was a shopping list! I tried to explain to the boss that the contents of the paper were merely what I planned to purchase for tonight’s dinner. I could tell that he did not completely believe me. His eyes grew suspicious and uncertain. I felt that somehow, this man’s displeasure would be enough for him to end my earthly life.
He took the paper from me and twirled his pipe in the fingers of his opposite hand. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk, comparing the two papers as he delicately balanced his pipe between his teeth. The look of confusion vanished from his face, looking as if he deciphered my language. Perhaps he would set me free? Surely, he could not draw a valid conclusion from a shopping list. He spoke to his subordinates with resolve and confidence, seeming somehow certain of something. He spoke like he uncovered a key detail that unlocked a great mystery. I knew not what he was speaking of, but I knew that he had decided what to do with me. I was somehow more afraid than ever, thinking that he would somehow ****** me, despite my innocence. He kneeled to my level and took my face into his hand and plunged his hand into one of his pockets. I feared that he would pull out a gun or a knife. I snapped my eyes shut, and was afraid to open them again. He spoke a benign and gentle-sounding word and immediately, I felt something graze my face.
Against my better judgment, I opened my tearful eyes, and saw that he was wiping my face with a handkerchief. He wiped my tears away from face. After my face was clean and dry, he swept my hair from my face. I tried to decipher his eyes, looking for a twinkle of kindness of a glint of malicious intent. He gave no such signal. Instead, he placed the handkerchief into my hand. He rose, looking mighty and fearsome and rose his pipe to his lips, but not taking a puff. Even though he looked non-threatening, his lack of emotion baffled me and I was somehow more afraid than ever, despite his fleeting moment of kindness. He rose an elegant and slender hand and waved dismissively toward me. He gestured to the two men and pointed toward the door. He was completely silent. I was about to be taken away.
The two subordinates grabbed me by the underarms, one on each side of me and stood me up clumsily. I watched as the gorgeous boss began to inhale slowly, savoring the flavor of his tobacco. I somehow felt that his breath was connected with my life, that I was doomed to die the moment that little puff had been expelled. The men began to drag me away with my bare heels dragging along the ground. I watched the boss desperately, praying that he would say something that could save me as the goons dragged me over the threshold of the door. One of them placed a bag over my head just as I saw the boss emit a thick smoke which masked his face, the way that clouds hide the elusive moon. I was blinded, but knowing that I was about to be killed. I did not need any clues to be sure of it. The boss had exhaled and I knew that by the time the smoke had cleared, I had vanished from his view.
I am aware that this is technically prose, but I still wanted to submit it. I wrote it a couple of months ago, believing that it might one day be something of merit. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I hope everyone enjoys it.
I'm back, babies.
JAMIL HUSSAIN Apr 2022
tire ishq kī intihā chāhtā huuñ
mirī sādgī dekh kyā chāhtā huuñ

Your infinite love, I desire
Look at my humility what I desire

sitam ** ki ** vada-e-be-hijābī
koī baat sabr-āzmā chāhtā huuñ

Fury or your audacious-unveiling
Something fortitude-testing I desire

ye jannat mubārak rahe zāhidoñ ko
ki maiñ aap kā sāmnā chāhtā huuñ

Heavens be favourable for the religious
But us ever-so close, facing each other is what I desire

zarā sā to dil huuñ magar shoḳh itnā
vahī lan-tarānī sunā chāhtā huuñ

A tiny heart but so spirited I am
To hear those words ‘’By no means canst thou see Me’’ I desire

koī dam kā mehmāñ huuñ ai ahl-e-mahfil
charāġh-e-sahar huuñ bujhā chāhtā huuñ

Determined guest I am O’ people of assembly
Morning lamp I am, quenching I desire

bharī bazm meñ raaz kī baat kah dī
baḌā be-adab huuñ sazā chāhtā huuñ

Within a full gathering I have disclosed the secret
So impolite I am, your punishment I desire

Note:

Moses prays to God for guidance and begs God to reveal himself to him. It is narrated in the Quran that God tells him that it would not be possible for Moses to perceive God, but that He would reveal himself to the mountain, stating: "By no means canst thou see Me (direct); But look upon the mount; if it abide in its place, then shalt thou see Me." When God reveals himself to the mountain, it instantaneously turns into ashes, and Moses loses consciousness. When he recovers, he goes down in total submission and asks forgiveness of God.

✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain
Words of Muhammad Iqbal
Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state,
And in their secret senate have prevailed
With the dear dangerous lords that rule our life,
Made moon and planets parties to their bond,
And pitying through my solitary wont
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.

For me in showers, in sweeping showers, the spring
Visits the valley:—break away the clouds,
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.
Sparrows far off, and, nearer, yonder bird
Blue-coated, flying before, from tree to tree,
Courageous sing a delicate overture,
To lead the tardy concert of the year.
Onward, and nearer draws the sun of May,
And wide around the marriage of the plants
Is sweetly solemnized; then flows amain
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,
Hollow and lake, hill-side, and pine arcade,
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.

Here friendly landlords, men ineloquent,
Inhabit, and subdue the spacious farms.
Traveller! to thee, perchance, a tedious road,
Or soon forgotten picture,— to these men
The landscape is an armory of powers,
Which, one by one, they know to draw and use.
They harness, beast, bird, insect, to their work;
They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,
And, like a chemist 'mid his loaded jars,
Draw from each stratum its adapted use,
To drug their crops, or weapon their arts withal.
They turn the frost upon their chemic heap;
They set the wind to winnow vetch and grain;
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime;
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods,
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,
They fight the elements with elements,
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked
Upright in human shape to rule their like.)
And by the order in the field disclose,
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.

What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,
I followed in small copy in my acre:
For there's no rood has not a star above it;
The cordial quality of pear or plum
Ascends as gladly in a single tree,
As in broad orchards resonant with bees;
And every atom poises for itself,
And for the whole. The gentle Mother of all
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds;
The innumerable tenements of beauty;
The miracle of generative force;
Far-reaching concords of astronomy
Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds;
Mainly, the linked purpose of the whole;
And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty,
The home of homes plain-dealing Nature gave.

The polite found me impolite; the great
Would mortify me, but in vain:
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts
My garden-***** can heal. A woodland walk,
A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds, and leave no cicatrice.
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear,
Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature pass
Into the winter night's extinguished mood?
Canst thou shine now, then darkle,
And being latent, feel thyself no less?
As when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye,
The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure,
Yet envies none, none are unenviable.
Marina Rose Oct 2011
I've got a handbag full of stanzas
with your name all over them.

By the end of each week
I've crushed every word
into dust
and I watch from my window
as the crumbs rise
to form the milky way
(your favorite).

As the ruins ascended
through the layers of atmosphere,
they lost all consistency.
To you, they were minute flecks of gold
sparkling in the sky.

I linger on the impolite outskirts
of wishing-wells
and for each coin that ebbs to the floor,
I surrender another page to you.

And who knows,
maybe this complex is not complex at all
- a simple thread needing to be scored,
or maybe that
would be the end of me.

For all I know,
you're made of smoke and mirrors;
I could only hope for such a mild disease.
sofia ortiz Aug 2012
I'm disowning my name.
In America, my name is cumbersome
and clumsy
and confusing
so I'm leaving it behind.
See,
my name starts with an S and ends with a Z
and one's a mirror of the other
so they're like bookends
for a collection of letters
that spell a name
that I never really felt belonged to me.
Every morning, when I wake up,
I wriggle into my name
but it doesn't feel quite right.
It's like borrowing your best friend's jeans
even though she's tall and skinny
and you've got a hundred generations of Puertoriqueña swirling around the blood in your hips.
I don't like my name
cause it doesn't diffuse across your lips.
It bursts through your teeth.
It's got a weight on your tongue
that brings down the sound with the weight of
a thousand sinking ships.
I've got a
Hispanic Titanic of a name
but my skin's so white
it seems impolite to claim an ethnicity
that only lends its elasticity
because of my father
and the people that brought him here.
My name is not me.
It never was.
It is an anchor that keeps me on the island of what my family used to be.
I am not a race.
I am not a category next to a box on a sheet of paper.
I am the syncopated heartbeat of a tribal drum.
I am the ****** whisper of water on the sand.
I am the sunburn on the corrugated tin.
I am the hunger in the stomachs of the working poor.
So when I die
let me not be remembered by
fifteen letters I did not choose
seven syllables I did not select
three titles I did not ask for.
Let them tell stories of
what I did
where I went
what I saw
who I loved
the words I spoke
the thoughts I formulated,
ignorant of my race
free of bias and prejudice
and preconceived notions
of what I should have been
because in the end
none of this will matter
I'll have no strength for words
but with a penultimate breath
I'll still be able to smile.
This poem is actually 4 years old. I found it in an old composition notebook from 8th grade (guess you know how old I am now). The first day of English, we had to write something about whether or not we liked our name. My response was lame, and in an attempt to redeem myself, I went home and wrote this poem. Being self-conscious, I never read it in class (or to anyone, actually), but it got me to sort through what I was thinking.
Anna Sep 2011
I don't trust you even if I do love you
You always say everything will be okay
Even if you say the most touching words in the world I won't believe you
Coz whatever point of view I may look, only lies will portray

I respect you coz you are the superior
But I’m mad at you coz you’re taking advantage of it
You tell this, you tell that, you all got the power
But in my mind I know all of those words you utter are full of ****

I don’t want to listen to you anymore
Or even hear your voice asking how am I doing
I’m glad that you’re far away from home
I’m mad coz I know you’re happy flirting

I know these words of mine is very impolite
But I can’t hide it anymore
I would like to thank you for still being there
And say ******* for still hurting my mom more and more
Nat Lipstadt May 2023
<6:30 AM.  Sun May 28 2023>

An internal clock stirs within,
a full fledged conscious conscience rings in,
like a silent alarm at a bank being robbed.

Various devices inform, each with a
different measurement cup/stick, that I,
have slept exactly seven hours which,
pleases, as I am queried,

How do you feel?

Fully refreshed!

my choice today,
most apropos,
for now awake, I begin to:

compose myself.

In the ordinary, is the where that
I have oft found poetry,
not to mention love and other good things,
walk the house, north to south, east to west,
under weakish, not really high in the sky,
sun rays break thru the tree cover and create
a checkerboard of light and dark patches
for children to play upon, if any were/where here.

All seemingly is well.
The rabbits beneath us,
are sleeping in,
because after all,
it is Sunday.

But I digress; composition implies order, form,
even malice aforethought, so as an artist,
knowing the world is yet extant,
and I, yet am in one piece(s),
make coffee for two,
humming an old tune of similar ilk,
re tea

But every human has some master,
and mine the machine!

Want coffee? Hah!
Empty the grounds!
Not enough.
Now, Refill the Tank!
What! More?
Fill the beans!

Suffice! Relent!
I am human, you machine, and I demand coffee.

At last, the impolite machine, that knows not ‘please’ nor
‘thank you,’ nary its native ‘your welcome’ in its native Swissie Deutsche (Keine Ursache!).  All very Swiss, and businesslike,
doth relent, making a very fine cup of coffee.

I shall not trouble you with various side trips,
that though common to all humankind, but
provoke two sister thoughts in quick succession.

A modified abbreviated prayer:

Dear Lord, Yo! You have brought me to
the beginning of a new day,. Thanks a lot!

I skip over this remainder part, my excuse?

Too many words!

(“As the world is renewed fresh and clean, so I ask You to renew my heart with Your strength and purpose. Forgive me the errors of yesterday and bless me to walk closer in Your way today.”)

The other thought, a reciprocal to my gratitude.

Why in hell do our bodies age, ache, snap & crackle, Buddy?
perhaps a revision of this policy is in order, Would it upset
some vast eternal plan if my body never tolled my years
in lines of degeneration, waves of visible and invisible erosion,
or at least make coffee a magical, healing restorative elixir?


Nope.  

The usual sneering silence of just be happy you’re alive
etc., etc., etc. and etc.

Don’t think I am asking for too much. just a little tinkering…

More to write, but I chastise myself with:

Too many words!

Leave off here, though my misadventures
and adventures too, yield up inspirational
hymns galore, and batches of familiar plaints,
that is my inalienable human right to express
to nobody else, in particular,

But you.

For in so many ways, we journey together
though our paths, locales, and courses are
so vastly different, in my mind, we are together,
in the here and now, and in the forever future,
we must continue to share and share alike,
our words….
a S. I. writ
Ayaba Babe Aug 2013
A kiss on the neck, a nibble on the lobe, a midday *** text, by a promise of deep console.

The wholeness of my *******, where your fingertips rest
Your lips.
A quick dip into the abyss-
Lingerie,
slips
slowly
risqué
...strip.
Flip positions.
Your wrists,
I want them bound.
Restriction.
Submission.
I want you motionless as I kiss my expedition down...

Your deep abyss, I can give you my answer, in depth,  solely for your bliss, but let's go back to square one, your happiness starts with my tongue, subtle licks followed by the patter of my lips, no longer free are my ankles, as I submit to you my wrists, knowing all along what turns you on is the throbbing nature that has over taken my pen,-is it you its yearning for?

Two inches more
and I shall welcome you inside the entrance of my esophageal door
how impolite would I be without offering a tour?
Let us slip down the walls until we reach the pits of the floor of my
stomach
-you've been here before-
I want to flood the shores of your beaches before the swimmers reach their destiny
You get the best of me.
Long strokes
You invest in me.
If I unbind you, will you stay next to me?
Digesting
The waves of lost control pulsating across your face...
you need me
I free you from your ties.
My thighs slide apart wider and wider...
I wade in the tides of your eyes...

Your thighs wider, as my lips come near, instead of my hips your grips around my ears, as I whisper sweet nothings to lips with no ears, but wait as I pause to give you no break, I slip ******* to let my tongue escape beyond boundaries unknown.
Moan,
scratch, bite then slap. Now hush, as flip you over, to pull your hair exhilarating your sensations to come over and over. Now both dripping wet, will you invite me in, it's only chocolate, an aphrodisiac, or a nemphos best friend.

Welcome,
Come inside.
It's slippery,
Slip and slide when you dip in me
Every time I'm still surprised at just how fulfilling you are.
The ride is thrilling
Abiding the hills of my ******* to will their weight
Up
And
Down
-The sound of your shallow breath-
There is
A depth
At which which you'll drown
Submerging great lengths beneath the surface of my sea
Enchanting
Entrancing
You instill great strength
When you're lying beneath me

Flying
Effortlessly

It feels like freedom.


To be inside you, and underneath, in control of your heart to my beat. Hands occupied, full grasped, stroking every inch of your fantass-tick tock, unwind your inner time clock with my ****, as I roll my hips, tightening is your handless grip, wet, don't slip, climatic joy as my tip finds your ****.

Release.
Your **** is the beast
That feasts
On my deceased beauty.
Really and Truly
I can not fully grip the grasp of the thought of my fantastic tick tock
Blown off the clock
-rock solid ****-
You won.
No man before has coerced me to come-
You have me at a loss to think
Sentences spilling in hologram ink
I blink.

It's such a quick motion, blink, rewet, now you have my full devotion, to divulge into your mind of the nature of what's been created by my subtle ****** notions, or a blunt hint, which allows me to explore more with deeper extent, long melodic notes, of your deep breaths that hum along my throat,
as I stroke,
take note,
I've physically exhausted you mentally by sensually exciting your frontal lobe.
highly sensual exotic ****** collaboration poem with the brilliantly talented Mr. Jason Brooks.
*side note* -we have never been intimate, never held any type of relations. It is the pure imagination of the mind that allows dreams and fantasies to come alive.
Enjoy :)
Zero the Lyric Jan 2013
I

Head, shoulders, bees, and hands.
Stings and wings apart,
From the anatomy of art
Despite the stills and shakes.
Two of twos for many stands.

Though at the fore reside the restless digits
Every thought, they spark and fidget.
The point is impolite, but that widget-
My leg knuckles buckle thinking of the quakes,
It tore through my index like new nectar glands…

II

One for rest the other for tests
And one s for the possibilitie
None are hidden from the complete set
of peering palms

right like the leaves,
left like the breeze.
Like the future
Told with tea.

Where these wrinkles will write their say
While these prints will match their way
Whistling while working; these knuckles will play
Whether it be told or felt- make it chalantly
Waiting with a tale for two in every day

III

I set them
With just enough pressure
To hold a frog for fun
Or to annoy a lame nun
Squeal
Down, the cuticles cry

Chuckle cackle fiddle,
Ruckus rackets and riddles
Are really a lot of fun you should try it.
Simply pry the favored tendon
Over that big red button
Yes yes, the American kanji of dissonance!

Excuse the madness, I refuse the discord.
Sounds do not have to be met with pain,
And fear can avoid disdain...
It’s an odd thing that jesters are paid for.

There is an education…
But there is no degree.
I also, cannot waive its fee.
What I paid was from within me.

IV

I had known a good friend fellow
Who once let out a grand belch bellow
About his crimes of cheese and wine

Toward a beauty so sweet and discreet
Her spinning feet fleeting from new feats
Whereabouts to doubt, still flies more than fine

I said to him “your sense is jagged
and your breath is haggard-”
so he interrupted with one of brine…

The failure is in my nature’s course!
Then my dammed machinations make it worse,
It seems as though who I intended to be

And who I wanted you to see,
Are wholly revealed as two separate scenes.
I must leave your metals unmatched sheen.

Well…As I trust you heard before,
Your bust appears to be a dusty lore
I say, you can’t expect her eyes to wait for rust!

A firm grasp on the glass.
She clasps a diamond overhead.
I pointed out with a wave.
A slam,
     Then rotating prints on his glass.
The hopeless *****,
     At the cheek she turned.
Whilst I drew on a napkin the-
Legendary Ten-Pronged Opposition Foundry.

Of course, those lights would close..
Excuse me, one other blueprint is exposed.
Canvas of humility, lines drawn like, self-drawn pens.

Perhaps three could wring something useful from this science

V

Her plans! her plans!
They dance, they dance!
As my matrix unravels,
The hiding holes disband,
Its light skips through the land.
This heat, though discreet,
Will shoulder like a man!
Torching every grain of sand
In to a castle of glass
Where the magic is as-
Crafts…of her own hands.

This is where she sings, here
Ask for where, and no song is there
The Tale is strained into strands
She sings there,
Now, she sings there


VI

Imagine, the swinging trees
And busy birds between fronds
Of these leaves, of mine, you see?
To ensnare and percuss
With your singing wrist
Yet you persist,
to pant and seethe
in these gauntlets and greaves…

A moronic oxidative process it is,
To be here and be there both.
Now that I see more strings
I would rather design dreams
Than to meddle a mess
Out of the mettle you chose to test.

VII

Why would one bother,
Vex the metal man’s nerves
Of alloy he dare not name

Mecca’s bolts smother
The work his death deserves
So he limps slow shocked by shame.

Reliquary shammed,
In sardonic preserves
Dark like the grace in his dame

Her bolts monogrammed
By her lack of wild game
Blinded by white in her cold

Her arms gently fold
His rebirth now retold
His machinery, untame

These split heart horns rammed
Dancing, a light the lame.
Dreams may anchor another

Inspire the lover,
You musical mother
I know it,
Your arts heal hearts after any worked hurt.

VIII

Until vissictudes
Crash down,
I lay my back on grazed meadows
With only the sky to cast shadows
Spinning clouds
Of those crafts
In their hands.
Where Shelter Feb 2015
(this poem don't matter much
unless you balk with ***** to essay upon,
thyself, thy valentine failures,
children and ex's who have ex'd you out,
sad love songs
one more time,
even joyous ones,
foolishness human,
then this intro source code,
is an unnecessary winter weather advisory)


a phrase, song~played, scratches,
brain self-commands
via electric synapse
To: the current in-resident body
extrude denude private places

riff,
get to thy work,
decompose on them words:
in the private places*

play with the lowly lowest ranking,
private, who by nature, sees
finer the dirtiest,
privy to the privy,
privilege them
to the most personal,
spit/spill/weep/deep
some or none of it all,
cause the scratch is the
poetic salvation to that
*****~itch, write

the best you get,
dispossess the beastie best
in the pvt. places,
ain't much/no difference
tween beastie and all the crapper rest

draw from the private places,
cast up to light,
revelations devaluations sensations
impolite,
well kept secrets

if you can say it good,
then draw it up from the well
where the private places
were|where sent to drown,
and if you can't,
no bother brother,
after this exculpation excavation,
I'll go back with you
to adding a rock to the
bottom of the pile,
the mountain of superficial crap
Hannah Ripps Feb 2011
Love struck right through my chest.
And there it planted a seed.
No matter how much I protest,
It crept up and grew like a ****.

It walked up when my back was turned.
How very unkind how very impolite,
It leads me only to get spurned.
And brings with it lonely a night.

Oh why did love do such a thing?
It likes to pick on me, love does.
Did it have to pluck each heart string?
But for the best it truly was.

For if love had decided not to creep at all,
I might have decidedly turned away,
I might never’ve taken down my wall.
Sneaky love has given me a chance today.
Third Eye Candy Dec 2012
the scream come from daffodils and parchment wrapped around dead fish
and demi-loaves of lunacy at new moon
succulent remedies to what not
and whatever... you remain altogether opulent in your nonchalance
whatever you wanted is dust; but you're not in France
you're maimed in false lies
of the ripple...
you're the noose garnet
swinging from the harpy's tongue
an impolite brigand
in the hate place
of your
miff.

and for what ?
glass can Apr 2013
throw fireworks at little brothers,
laugh, until they start crying, then hide

make mom cry, a lot. worry her, a lot.
make everyone who loves you cry, at least twice

run your ******* up a flagpole, steal a flag
smoke cigarettes at school

through bad ***** and insincerity
get drunk, then kiss everybody

borrow people's things
make them regret lending to you

throw up in such a way it'll ruin a party
throw up in someone's bed
leave it for them later

buy cheap drugs, steal cheap clothes,
exploit the good nature of others

spit at someone's feet

start useless arguments,
especially with bigots, especially when drunk,
especially when you need to impress people

get kicked out of something holy and sacred,
in the process, shame your grandparents

flip the bird, yell impolite things and trivia
at friends, strangers, anyone

set a plastic trashcan on fire,
leave it somewhere important
forget about it

pierce your face, more than once
pierce somewhere not on your face
show people you shouldn't

say trite thoughts, dress them up with $10 words
look pedantic, unsmiling, and snooty

put everything off, procrastinate
until it ***** you up, wonder what happened

finally,
stay awake at night, remembering all this,
then pity yourself, you ******* *******
st64 Jul 2013
The other day, a house nearly fell on my elbow
Berating the sky for being so impolite
It gifted me this chevalier ...

Wh-what a rad surprise!



S T, 11 july

, , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , ,
gift = gifting = giving ....as they say, never look a .......

:)


sub-entry: 'Ballad Of The Soldier’s Wife' - Caroline Henderson

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the ancient city of prague
From prague came a pair of high heels shoes
With a kiss or 2, came the high heels shoes
From the ancient city of prague

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Oslo over the south
From Oslo came a collar of fur
How pleased her, the little collar of fur
From Oslo over the south

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the wealth of Amsterdam
From Asterdam he got a hat
She look sweet and that and knew that hat
From the wealth of Amsterdam

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Bruxelles and Belgium land
From Bruxelles he sent her laces so rare
So have and to wear,
Oh those laces so rare
From Bruxelles and Belgium land

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Paris, the city of lights
In Paris he got her a silken gown
It ended in town, that silken gown
From Paris, the city of lights

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the south, from Bucharest
From Bucharest, he sent her a shirt
Embroided in purf, that remain in shirt
From the south of Bucharest

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From far of Russian land,
From Russia, there came just a widow’s band
From death to be wed and her widow’s bells
From far of Russian land
From far of Russian land.



• www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECzqOoQKO64
Bethany Collery Mar 2021
A line to define us is what you imagine,
When you hear the words,
Autism Spectrum Disorder,
It generally happens.

You place us in order,
Based on our physical representation,
And here come the words that I must slaughter,
Before you draw this misrepresentation.

We are not,
The terms ‘high functioning’,
Or ‘low functioning’,
In fact this is actually quite impolite.
To give a more representable label,
Please use the terms,
Severe Autism,
Moderate,
Or mild.

Every autistic person,
Has a different set of strengths and needs,
So do not presume the ‘functioning’ term,
As it tends to arrange and mistreat,
Every autistic person,
Who experiences challenges,
In different versions.

With these terms,
We have created the gap between neurotypicals and the autistic on our own.
When after all,
A better understanding is all we need to be realistic,
Because we all share the same bones.

So, no two people you meet with autism,
Are categorically the same.
We are a spectrum of many beautiful colours,
And we are all here to play the same game.
There are multiple areas where we can succeed,
And just like you,
Others, where we are not so great.
- Bethany Collery -
@poetry.bethanycollery on IG
k f Jan 2012
or
how very ******* rude!*

your unintentionally agressive, shining glare
reflects on all the
silverware and china and crystal
and it's the
                       last
                                  drop.

i say,

but enough about that
let's talk about
the fact that you're really ******** distracting

(see, i can't even finish my tea!)

you are
neon and flashing, police car lights
a warning:
blinding,
seizure and discomfort inducing
and tacky
but oh so ******* beautiful

(in the wrong way
i suppose
laugh)


                       can't you see the commotion you cause?


always *******
parading
like it's something to be proud of
like you don't care
like you don't know
like you don't even ******* notice

your appeal is
offensive and
disgustingly disconcerting and
impolite

                       [ sometimes i wonder if you even own a ******* mirror
                       and if you did,
                       would you, [upon
                       gazing at yourself staring
                       like it's just the thing to ******* do,]
                       would you *****
                       (like i want to)
                       on the floor
                       on the food
                       on your new shoes ]


sigh look
can you just go
be you somewhere else,
                       please
                       ?

you're making me sick
to my stomach and
i
                  can't
                                   breathe


cough
i'm sorry,
it's just

the bile isn't helping my sore throat.
it's all your fault.
would you like some more biscuits?


also, this is the longest thing i have ever written.
Jazzelle Monae Sep 2016
A traffic light
In the middle of the night
Is the invite
To a midflight
Stop
And the starlight
Of a fallen meteorite
Begins to reunite
Some impolite
Feelings
Because bodies have an appetite
For pure delight
In things that excite
And ignite
A craving
And in hindsight
Wish to be gripped tight
To rewrite
A Goodnight
Without words
2016 © Jazzelle Monae
Mazen Edlibi Dec 2016
What would I say about it!
It seems i have no definition!
Love might be.... Let Others Voice Emotions!
Love might be... Live On Vapidity Effluent!
Does it have a meaning?
Do I need to search for its meaning?
I do admit that I'm Lost
I'm losing faith...
A faith in my own feelings or what things are going inside me!
A faith in something called "Love"
This Label which has been given by others!
A faith that this thing so called "Love"  Does Exist!
They told me... I am searching for extraordinary woman!
And they didn't see the extraordinary inside me that I want to bring out!
I am willing to be rude, if i want clarity!
I am willing to be impolite, if i want answers!
I am willing to be no more nice, if I want to claim my rights!
I just want to my pain to rest and relax!
I want to own them and respect them!
I want to honor their service fro what i BECAME AND WHAT I WILL BECOME!
I want to take my hand away and not cover my mouth anymore!
I JUST wanted to be myself!
If you "Love", "Care" and "Dare".... Just Help me...If you felt me... Then Thank you
I captained logs lovingly across
a musky pond
to hang stars on this date
when so much happened.
Let’s wake in the missed-me morrow
and I’ll try to recapture it.

6am

My aroused heart pounds with the eager
pecks of new world sparrows
feasting on a found pile of saltine *******
crumbs.

With these easier pickings, they can gloss
over hypothetical seeds lost
and the unfortunate insects
still trapped in their tightly wrapped buds
while emitting
a silky trickle of pollen sweetened tears
I might have once confused as joy.

8am

My mouth is a cast iron bell
robbed of its moistness
and the service of a tongue that would rather be
surgically cut without
the requisite anesthesia
than extol with slithering anticipation
the downfall of cold-blooded prey.

A grubby grimace can’t
switch off the cockle-less warmth
gazed by an elegantly impolite swan,
but amazingly cottony soft escapes can
be ginned with the bait of a choirboy’s tender
“Have mercy!”

10am

My nutmeg brown irises are diced
fresh and tossed into a ***
where spiced hot they’re shown
the urgency this yet-to-be plucked rose feels
when the mid-morning light
accumulates with enough heat
to bake the earth chocolate.

The tattered edges of her puckered lips
glow an ardent shade of pink and make
a beacon, signaling kingly butterflies to abdicate
their aimless flutters and jet
directly toward her alluring realm.

Noon

My usually cool tips can’t maintain
their aloof trance and they trip
red with sudden blushes over the damaged
clasp on a school girl’s lunch box
crayoned with lemonade kittens,
their wordless greetings.

It’s unlatched to reveal no magic
pressed in the chunks of pickle loaf,
but the foetid and desperate
fruits of a wish for can’t-stay-at-home mothers
to be released from the wages of others’
drudgery.

A squirrel drags her white bread
and dappled meat onto the play lot
where the child’s storm-cloud stare
breaks with the flash
and low rumble of laughter.

2pm

My soles crave the touch of loose-dirt
roads, but it’s my ankles that meet
brambles and are torn by their tiny kisses
from which a rubbery
beauty of sappy drips trails back
to grow pastel primavera blooms.

Their long, tapered necks
and delicate, glassy horns blow
the modulated notes of an icy hymn.

Its diamante flecks freckle
the hovering blue before falling
to press these young,
painted plants into a frieze
and free them from wilting.

4pm

My nape aches for the subtle
weight on not supple joints
between thick fig branches
powdered with a maquillage of snowy dust.

No one care can snap them
or keep them from sheltering
the grazes of constantly bleating sheep.

Candy floss wool is tinted
jonquil then apricot then cherry
as the distant and fiery ball of a sun
slowly descends to the quenching
splash in its night-deposit bucket.

6pm

My unencumbered back gently rolls with a raft
adrift on ripples raised
when unknown aquatic creatures
stir in a shallowly cupped liquid.

Their pleasant plunks and gleeful gurgles
are carried on the crisply creeping evening
air to wash away
the unsavory wafts of salty rumors.

Here I can’t scent the far-removed
oceans racked by hunger’s
chilling frissons and the pundit’s
raging rants to at all-costs maintain
the elevation of market-priced pap.

And I drifted off...
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
S Smoothie Jul 2014
Folder: Heart aesthetics

The two of us alone by the fire in this wild landscape, tumble weeds and dust. the endless dust.  surely there could be some sort of peace offering that might make the night a little more comfortable than that of the past days. a small truce? suddenly I noticed him watching me. it was in a strange and unguarded way. he almost seemed  likeable except for the fact he was the most arrogant, heddonistc man i had ever met. again I looked at him. I bated him a little.

"dont you know its impolite to stare at a lady?"

There was an instant glint in his eyes and I knew he was thinking of the bathing pool. I blushed thanking the fire it didnt have the air to flicker brigher.  I wasnt quite ready for a reply.


"Yes, and I sure would be in trouble if there was a lady here! cause what Im looking at would be the pride of any man who had the pleasure of meeting them!"


He caught my breath my heart paused for a second. He was oviously alluding to the invitation he so easily tossed at her by the waters edge as he handed her her towel looking away with a cheap grin trying to convey the model of a complete gentleman. I saw him at that moment, menacing and I met him eye to eye. something strange took over me as I watched him leering at me eyes moving from soft peaks to nape , to lips and challenging me with his eyes. He made no attempt to hide the fact that I was desirable in the conventional way. Just not in any other way. but strangely I didnt feel threatened but rather bolder. his hand clinched suddenly as he stood suddenly towering over me. I got up on my feet and walked back a bit to create some distance between us but I stopped unable to mover further than a few feet away. my legs were unwilling to move and his eyes were able to rove freely the peaks and vallies of my womanhood. **** the fabric for being the type to reveal my shape in the firelight,  and **** the hot air that made the moisture cling it tightly to me.


I searched for meaning in his eyes, it came in  the unfurling of his desire and manifested in the breath of my own heartbeat pulsing into a crevice long forgotten. its revival took me somewhat, by surprise. and in the instant you saw it flicker in my eyes I saw it flicker in your own under the brim of that old leather hat. panic! oh hell! not ready for this feeling! uncomfortable sweetness and lazy pulses. weakness dragging along with it a wanton desire crawling molten heat wilting and yet rising in it a will of its own. I reeled inside my mind now lost inside the sensation of my body! reactions everywhere! A deep blush and a nip of my lip  to constrain me. here we are standing face to face a few feet  from eachother and that flicker had started in me a whole revolution. my thighs grew weary of standing so tightly wound together and my hips fancied themselves drawn towards you and took thier liberties from me. here I was held in an uncomfortable contortion hips lunged forward, tightened rosettes lunging to ward you and my mind was now working against me. your jaw seemed so warm and welcomeing and I could see myself nuzzling in the craw... and your hardness proudly announcing its desire to serve. those eyes those lightning sweet flickers, glowed over you warmth and hardness so appealing so pertinently appropriate in its impropriety.


Oh what in tarnations, there goes that waffling **** joy, oh sensiblitily who the hell cares! My mind and body argue and the shakes start to take over and I am completely confounded by my senses. then just as suddenly as it came its forgotten as the realisation of why this is such an offensive state to me. All I can remember are the words he said reeling in my head!


"The invitation is revoked of its warmth on account of your inhospitiable and ungracious prudish manner, but the polite thing to do is keep the invitation open at least on a civil basis otherwise i might not be considered a gentleman."


that was his gentlemanly way of calling her a harlot! Gentleman my-  Hate suddenly crawled up my spine and to my surprise it only served to flame my passion. I wanted what I wanted and courage and boldness took hold. If its civil he wants civil he will  get! I picked up my vanity like a harlott and lunged forward stopping just as quickly hoping he hadnt noticed. Hardly worth hoping. He noticed everything and he would surely call me on it. but insted strangely intent, he stood silent, still and focused. His eyes on my eyes I had noticed once I met them. A rugged jaw clinched and fist tight beside him. but his breath was cheating him of his composure. it was at this moment I knew we were fighting the same wanton battle. Pride dancing with lust, any hopes of love torn from the bitterness of rivalry between us by the fact that he held me in such high disregard. and I only as a pure instinctual reaction, do reasonably as any reasonalbe person attributed  such unwarranted assignment of character failings would do the same.


What was I to him? I found myself wondering what it would be like to be taken under his person, his strong arms pulling me towards him pressed against him... more rushes spun in cirles around me trying to find expression tight rosettes and puckering crevices landscapes once barren and forgotten had suddenly sprung to life. alive and wanting aching craving touch and now suddenly my heart decided to pull away from me. Suddenly fear flooded my body and then anger twisted its self all over me again. What the hell is going on?? Is it in my head? to hell with it ! I peered deep into his eyes and marched into his arms and forced a kiss to push him into my headdiness. and he obliged and held it warmly and gently, though my voraciousness clearly fell away at my noticing of this sudden cordialness pushing humiliation down into my throat and deep into the core of me unleashing a viper


"Why did you let me kiss you? "


I hissed, pulling away. he replied without missing a beat,


"It was the civil thing to do."


here I am rosy as all hell with a chasm as wide as the grand canyon with the words **** etched on to my pride.


"**** you! **** you to hell!"



I rushed at him and my hand flying through the air. it had its own justice to serve and I went with it. Oh hell, i went with it! Rage flew me up to him and suddenly I felt immobilised. My hand stilled hanging in the air, less than an inch from its target. His eyes now burning into me burrowing into me with seering white heat and an intensity that made me want to look away if it hadnt been for my last shred of pride refusing and rather accepting full blindness rather than conceede. suddenly his shadow fell over me and leaning down his lips parted his eyes softened and i felt the tenderly regard he was capable of it made me weak in my knees! I fell  into it as he caught me and in that sweet kiss, so beautifully warm. velvet silkeness I clung to him pressed against himas his hardness proudly declaring his intensions. it was a fit so perfect, that had there not been silk , denim and leather chaps in the way I would have merged with him seemlessly! oh the glorious delight of such care in his ravishment of me! I was lost, I was found!  yet, I was not even aware of anything but a dire need for his impending intensions to come to light.  then I felt him pull away from my lips. confused eyes watched as they pleaded why? He pushed me away and held me back from him like some vile rat and declared


"That is what youre missing as per the original invitation."  


He let me go as pain and humiliation stung my cheeks. reeling once again. I dropped to the ground. I put my hands to my heart trying to cover what he had done.  He had breeched my sacred place my soul stained and forever darkened by this stranger, I had trusted who was entrusted to escort me to my new lodgings... now my closest enemy.  in three days. and to bare for three days more. I am lost. lost. so this is what it feels like when hell burns you to the ground? and to think I almost thought for a second I could have fallen in ? serves me right to think any man would be different.  Im an idiot. That is the exact reason I need to marry money. I regained an inchling of my composure. enought to speak well, ok hell, I spat it at him


"I trust you sir, will be gentlmanly enough not to mention this to Mr Bently?"


"As always ma'am"


he tipped his hat and walked away  from the fire and my ashes into the darkness.


I stood there for a while listening to the bushes rustle till I knew he had found a place spend the night. I walked around the carriage to enter, I waited just enough time for him to get comfortable.  then ever so politely, gave him a reason to rise.  


"Mr Jones, would you mind helping me up the footer? I'm too afraid to sleep on the ground alone."


I heard him muttering and hissing under his breath. I smiled inside. for some reason it made me feel better. He slammed the carriage door and walked off again into the dark. I sat there on the plush bench thinking of him and scolded myself just as quickly as I had thought it. it was a cycle reapeated the whole night and as I drifted off to sleep I even let myself slip a brief thought of myself on a porch cleaning potoates while looking out at Clancy wiping his brow and smiling back... Clancy, Clancy Jones. What kind of a stupid name was that anyways? No woman in her right mind would want to marry a man with a name like that!  Mrs. Clancy Jones...

Any copying or transfer of material whether part or in total is strictly prohibited unless granted permission and directly credited to the author.
this is a draft from an upcoming work.  I apologise for the lack of grammar and confused tenses etc. I will refine it soon. any appraisals or criticisms are welcome.

Any copying or transfer of material whether in part of in total  is strictly prohibited unless  granted permission and directly credited to the author. All rights reserved.
Flaneur Jun 2013
I'm glad that when I was younger my family fed me with enough candies, So i would never exited with random free candies. I just take it, and say thanks. Since denied an offer is impolite. Plus you don't want overly excited over a random candy, and regret later. (E.g. Someone might kidnap using the candy tactic. Or your candy might be a drug). The sweetness of the candy doesn't last forever, you need some like your family to supply you with enough dose of sweetness, without demand something in return. How would we found the sincere candy supplier? My tip, situational and textuality of the candy.
It's metaphor. So just you know.
Arlo Disarray Apr 2015
I used to care so much what people thought of me
But it made me go nuts, felt in need of a lobotomy
So I just said "**** it!" and no longer care
When impolite ******* so awkwardly stare

I'm a set of toy trains going toward each other full speed
I'm a swarm of huge spiders who need you to feed
I'm a black bottle with a skull on the label
Use caution around me if you're able

Parental advisory, even parents need supervision
Better ask all your dead relatives if you have their permission
My mouth is loud and filthy, but it's okay, I'm young
I've still got a few years to lighten up my tongue
My words are like scorpions and bees leaving you stung
And all my most wicked songs have still yet to be sung

Don't say I didn't warn you, caution tape and all
I'll go full throttle until the day I fall
And even when I'm down, I'll pull myself and crawl
I live for offense and I thrive on appaul

I hope when I'm dead not to be missed at all
Jedd Ong Dec 2015
It is impolite to wonder
whether the hot air balloon in your
lungs have begun to deflate,
grandfather.

Whether you wish to float away.
Dad said you never feared flying -
dad said nothing about it, rather.
But I fear for you.

You are old. Older than I can ever imagine.
You are frail but for the globes rising
in your chest and stomach; they fall
with each frail breath.

Let it carry you away. Do not
let these wires hold you down. They do not
pump poison into your body. They do not
let the heat escape.

If it must, it will, grandfather. The ceased oldness
in you expanding and contracting
at will. You will not die without a fight,
grandfather. Oh you will.
Was never close to you. But you're an intriguing study. Very grave.
ahmo Jan 2017
numbness, my old abusive life partner, trickle down my spine and gush outward like a broken levee.

stay up far past a reasonable bed time to think about a reality where purpose is more evident. work, work, work. learn the circuitry of computer programs that will never solve world hunger. listen to sad songs on the drive home. empathize with roadkill.

float above your body. smell the surroundings and mimic all of the textbooks you've read on active listening. grin and nod while your mind transforms more and more into pile of melted wax. become nauseated by the stench of your own life. let it seep into your bloodstream like a rotten batch of dope.

think about death. think about death during breakfast. think about death when the sun goes down on an uneventful Sunday afternoon. think about death during ***. think about death while getting drinks with friends. ponder why this earth decided to play the role of an impolite and overworked host. feel sorry for the sun for having so much responsibility.

cry until the faucets allowing your tear ducts to stop are broken. let your dinner become play-dough. be a gracious host to the parasites in your mind. swim with them like the dolphins. lose grasp of why waking up is so important. swallow whiskey like saliva. promise yourself that you won't drink four tall-boy Pabst Blue Ribbons on a Tuesday night. drink four tall-boy Pabst Blue Ribbons on a Tuesday night.

hold numbness while it cries in your lap and promises that it will change-that things will be different. allow it to feed you lies like someday you'll enjoy the sunrise and someone will realize that you're not too broken to love

rip skin off of limbs. try to make it another day.

— The End —